Hurt
by Aly Teima
Summary: Five times someone tried to harm John Watson, and one time someone did/


Five Times Someone Made the Mistake of Threatening John;

And the One Time Someone Truly Hurt Him

_Disclaimer; don't own the brilliance that is BBC Sherlock. Don't own Martin Freeman so I can put him in my pocket *sniffle* No money is being made from this._

_AN; Okay, jumping on the five times bandwagon, title's a bit cheesy I know but I have _GOT_ to get Reichenbach out, somehow. Won't work of course but still. The coma incident was referred to in Chapter 1 of Words. And yeah, artistic license with "Scandal"_

**Irene Adler**

John should have known that one of the few women Sherlock would look twice at would be a ruthless, wanted criminal apparently.

It just fit his style.

Having a gun pointed at his neck and only three seconds to live didn't fit in with _John's_ style, however.

Sherlock came through, he always did and the fear in his voice made up for something, John supposed, when he said *No, pleaded, _pleaded? Sherlock doesn't plead_* that he didn't know it.

After, though, Sherlock only looked enraged, dangerous.

"Just give me the phone and I'll let him go." Irene held a small knife, letter opener probably, great for John's dignity, to his throat.

It was still sharp, however, and John felt droplets of blood on his collarbone.

Sherlock, eyes never missing a thing, bared his teeth.

"Give it to me!" Irene's voice was shrill but her hand didn't waver.

Sherlock slowly and casually held it out, just beyond her reach.

"This phone had better be everything you and others say for this sacrifice."

"S-sacrifice?" Irene stuttered, awkwardly reaching for the phone, holding John and jabbing him with the knife.

"I won't forget this. You don't threaten John Watson, Irene Adler. Not you, not anyone." Sherlock was ice, gods even John barely recognized him.

Irene actually took a step back but Sherlock continued to hold the phone out.

"Choose now to let him go, and I'll give you a head start."

Irene glanced at John and he didn't like what he saw in those calculating blue eyes.

"Don't even think about it."

"Would almost be worth it, taking him with me."

Now the knife's point was directly under John's chin, digging.

"It would be the last thing you ever chose to do. The phone."

Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's and the minute the pressure was off, John twisted and knocked the phone from Sherlock's open hand.

It skittered across the room at the same moment he pulled away from Irene's weapon.

Irene, however, had a back up plan.

She reached into her pocket and dove at Sherlock.

"NO!" John shouted, too late.

Sherlock reeled and John dashed over. Irene rushed toward her phone but John ignored her.

"What did you do, what did you give him?"

But Irene was gone.

"Sherlock? Gods…." *Not poison, please not poison*

"No good doctor." Irene's disembodied voice echoed out. "Just a sedative. I've enjoyed the entertainment for today. Don't be a stranger."

Sherlock was gasping and John hoped he could trust _HA! _ believe The Woman.

"John."

"Sherlock, just relax ok?"

"Why didn't…you just, just do that, twirly thing, from the beginning?"

John blinked. Bloody hell the git was actually _lecturing_ him as he gasped like a fish out of water.

"So sorry, life being threatened must have distracted me." Twirly thing indeed.

**CIA agent**

John stumbled in as per Sherlock's, ah, request.

He saw Mrs. Hudson on the couch, bruised, bloody and shaken and a tied and gagged man on the opposite side of the room.

Sherlock was between them.

John did a double take as he recognized the bound man. His mind took it all in, slower than Sherlock's but that was 99.9 percent of the population. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him mockingly and John wanted to flash him a sign.

Priorities, however. His anger was growing, raging. Mrs. Hudson, one of the sweetest, kindest, true a bit dotty but genuine ladies John had ever known had actually been harmed.

Sherlock barely glanced at John but it said enough. The man had essentially ordered John's execution, and yet he almost felt sorry for him.

He took Mrs. Hudson's hand comfortingly and she gave him a wan smile.

Almost.

Sherlock ordered, definitely an order, them downstairs and John only followed for Mrs. Hudson's sake.

He just hoped Lestrade would understand about this particular homicide.

Sherlock, left alone with the man, circled him.

"There are certain nerve points that cause the most excruciating pain a man can feel. Did they tell you that in your, training?" He sneered on the last word.

"And I know every one of them."

Obviously a reply wasn't forthcoming.

"You have, in a very short time, threatened the two people who mean more to me than your pathetic mind could ever possibly imagine. Certainly your life does not begin to equal the balance."

Sherlock leaned over the man and the other saw murder in those light blue eyes.

Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson winced slightly as John dabbed disinfectant on her cheek.

John's hands were always gentle, but he still felt like a brute.

*Whump* An object hurtled past the window and hit the ground dully.

Mrs. Hudson was concerned for her bins but John closed his eyes and waited for the sirens to arrive.

Lestrade, later, barely questioned Sherlock. Breaking in, harming an innocent older woman, the man deserved worse than even Sherlock had dealt out. The asshole better have some good connections at the United States Embassy.

"Good job." Lestrade muttered to Sherlock as the ambulance drove the perp away.

Sherlock did a double take. "You're actually complimenting me for trying to murder a man?"

Lestrade just looked at him. "He threatened Mrs. Hudson, everyone on the force wanted to take turns using him as a piñata."

Sherlock's lips quirked slightly. "He did more than that."

"Oh?"

"He ordered John shot."

"What!" Lestrade was astounded. "When?"

"Not important. Just make sure he's deported. Scum like that isn't worth me rotting in prison.

If you could ever prove it was me."

**The Mountain**

Shan. Not enough to murder a beautiful, young girl but now….

John struggled uselessly against his bonds. Obviously this lot knew what they were about.

Sarah's pleading eyes were tearing him apart. He wished he knew what the hell these, Black Lotus people, wanted from him.

Oh, great, just fan-bloody-tastic. Being mistaken for Sherlock Holmes added a new level to this lovely debacle.

In describing Sherlock, John wanted to use some pretty choice words by the time his best friend *When did that happen?* arrived.

But arrive he did, with his usual dramatic flair. John and especially poor Sarah were fed up with dramatics.

He felt like a right fool, crawling around, and hands still tied, trying to reach the terrible machine that could skewer the first woman who had shown interest in him for a long time.

He'd get over it.

Where on this green earth was Sherlock?

Shan got away, John expected Sherlock to race after the criminal. He expected rage or even contempt at having to deal with these, distractions, keeping him from finishing the job.

Instead, Sherlock was tender, gentle, muttering comforting phrases to Sarah as he untied her.

John stared, open-mouthed.

When she was free John's friend darted over to him and began untying the doctor's abused hands.

Sherlock's eyes raced over John, trying to spot anything out of the ordinary.

"It, it's fine, Sherlock. Really. I'm okay."

Sherlock stiffened then but not before he pulled John to his feet. Something about the way his hands knew how to avoid any bruised spots seemed almost like, an embrace.

Like this was one of the few, maybe only times Sherlock could tell John how relieved he was. Without seeming weak.

John put his hand on his taller friend's shoulder, gently squeezing, and for once, Sherlock didn't flinch.

"It's all fine."

Moriarty eventually caught up with Shan. Sherlock deduced he would. Lucky for her.

**Unknown**

Lestrade almost wished it had been some criminal mastermind, subterranean gang or anything else, anything that would make sense.

Instead, some thug (still trying to catch him) had shot John Watson point blank in a nearby shop.

John, being John, had been trying to calm down hysterical shoppers when the thief was robbing the place.

He had shot a younger man; the man had his two children with him, accidentally in the leg.

So, an amateur, shaky and very, very dangerous.

John had been making a tourniquet, hushing the sobbing children. He'd forgotten he'd been carrying his gun.

As he bent over the wounded man, the thief saw the pistol and without a word opened fire.

Only one bullet, thank god, but it struck John Watson directly in the back and he went down instantly.

He crashed in the ambulance and again as the doctors were trying to patch him up.

John Watson was used to war and had been shot before. It didn't seem fair that his abused body had to take more punishment.

Lestrade, although he knew it was a useless gesture, carried a cup of hot coffee over to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was sitting, slumped really, in an uncomfortable hospital chair. He hadn't said a word for almost five hours.

New record, then, for him but Lestrade wasn't happy about the reason.

Lestrade even tried to force the coffee into Sherlock's long, limp fingers. Nothing. The man was a shell.

"John's strong, Sherlock. It didn't hit any major organs." Okay, so a lung might count. Lestrade hoped John wouldn't lose one of two.

"He'll come out of surgery, he'll be okay."

"Sherlock….."

"My life."

"I'm sorry?"

"Doesn't make sense. I could do anything I wanted, and I'm here, now."

Lestrade caught his breath.

"How did this happen?"

Never, never had Lestrade seen Sherlock so lost and upset. It twisted the older man's gut.

"W-what are you saying Sherlock? That you wish you could take it all back and not be, uh, you?"

Never have met John. The unvoiced statement swirled around them.

Sherlock hung his head, his dark curls hiding his eyes. "Ask me later. Please."

Lestrade stood up. He was an Inspector, a cop and he saw terrible things every day. He saw abused wives, children, saw gruesome murders and saw things that made you question humanity in this world. He seldom got to see his own family, though.

He knew about bonds. Bonds between partners could last a lifetime; especially when everyday you placed your life in the hands of someone else.

This was a bond he hadn't seen before.

John Watson, M.D. was a good man, patient and selfless but not a total bore. He was a friend and an asset and his warm smile could only ensure he would be a doctor.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, could be cruel and ruthless. He said things that made most cringe. His brilliant mind was like a gift from some benevolent god. He chose to solve, not commit crimes. And once Lestrade had seen Sherlock slip a powerful laxative to one of Molly's boyfriends. He'd deduced, in less than a minute that the prat was cheating on her.

Lestrade didn't use to believe in destiny or soul mates and John (constantly and often not necessary, shouting NOT GAY!) was between a rock and a hard place.

John loved Sherlock and Sherlock loved him. They were both stuck for the long haul, or so the DI had once believed.

The news finally came that John was in recovery but no neurological response. Coma, for who knew how long.

Lestrade was glad that his own coffee burned his mouth; it gave him an excuse for his watery eyes when he walked away.

_AN; Yeah, I really like Lestrade. I like writing him and think he's pretty flippin' awesome. Plus I love Rupert Grave's accent._

**Moriarty**

John was strapped to a bomb. The horror of a few seconds was gone, replaced by something else entirely.

John hadn't betrayed him or played him for a fool. John, his best friend, had a sniper's mark on his chest.

Sherlock's impeccable mask slipped.

He bit his bottom lip, his eyes actually watered.

His breathing quickened and he couldn't control his jerky movements when John was finally, thank god, safe.

John looked at him and even though the smaller man's life had been in grave danger only a minute before, there was warmth there.

Sherlock wanted to snipe at him, to prove him wrong but he couldn't. Instead he smiled and John, with a funny laughing snort, smiled back.

Sherlock smiled more and more when John was around. He even laughed.

But he would destroy Moriarty completely for daring to come close to what was his.

And **finally… SPOILERS!**

"Keep your eyes fixed on me." Sherlock held out a hand. John stood stories down and Sherlock wished desperately that he could see the older man up close, just one more time.

He didn't need to, though. John was always there, in his heart and mind.

The words echoed.

"You could."

Sherlock choked on his tears *tears, who would have believed it of him*

"I researched you….."

Yet, no matter what he said John Watson wouldn't believe him. Who was this man?

John looked up at the lanky figure on the roof. He willed himself not to breathe; maybe if he was very still this terrible nightmare would be over.

Sherlock jumped.

John screamed, and then ran.

A cyclist slammed into John, pummeling him to the ground but he didn't feel it, couldn't feel anything.

His heart was being pulled from him. Sherlock, covered with blood, being hoisted onto a gurney.

Couldn't he hear John's pleas? His begging?

No. If so, he would be there, always, beside his colleague and dearest friend.

The sun rose and set rose and set and John Watson waited for the pain to stop. He never asked if he'd ever experienced pain like this before.


End file.
